Lady of Devices (2 page)

As was his habit, Gorse piloted the steam landau up to the steps in the mews behind St. Cecelia’s at precisely three-fifteen. Claire ran to meet him and waited impatiently while he set the brake and went around the front to pull open the thin brass door for her. She allowed him to hand her inside and, with a practiced eye, checked the pressure gauges, the switch positions, and the indicators that told the pilot the levels of coal and water in the boiler.

A hopelessly old-fashioned carriage with the Wellesley family crest on the door rolled up behind them, pulled by two fine chestnuts. Claire could practically feel the stares of envy as Lady Julia and her friends were handed inside.

“Gorse, please, may I—”

“No, miss. The Viscount would have my head were I to allow you to drive this beast in front of those ladies.”

What a triumph it would be! “But Gorse—”

“Miss, do not press me, I beg you.”

Only consideration for his feelings kept her silent until they were around the corner and halfway down an alley more suited to the collection of trash than the driving of the latest in engines. “Now may I, Gorse?”

“Yes, miss. Remember what I told you about releasing the brake. She’ll leap ahead because she’s been parked and had a chance to build a bit of a head up.”

Claire stepped out without assistance and collected her canvas driving coat from under the folding seat in the rear. Dear Gorse. He insisted on referring to the landau as
she
, as though it were an elegantly built horse made of brass, iron, and glass. But then, people referred to airships as
she
, did they not? The steam landau did have a mind of her own, like a woman of independent thought, that was certain.

She settled into the driving seat as he climbed in on her left. “Gorse, it’s a lovely day. We must have the top down.”

“Of course, miss.”

She braced both feet on the floor and grasped the lever on the side of her seat. As she leaned her weight on it and drew it back, the articulated top of the landau ratcheted back with the whispering sound of a train pulling into a station. It folded itself into a slot behind them like a golden metal fan, and she and Gorse let the glass windows down.

Ahhhhh. Freedom and the wind in her face.

“Mind what I said about the brake, miss. And don’t forget these.” He handed her a set of driving goggles with a tilt-down telescopic lens to see at greater distance should she need to.

“I remember.” It was the work of a moment to remove her broad-brimmed hat and slip the goggles over her eyes to protect them not only from the fug of London’s coal fires, but from the very wind of their going. Hat once more in place, she released the brake and the needles on the gauges jumped. Working the brake and the acceleration pedals simultaneously, she controlled the landau’s urge to surge ahead until it worked off its head of steam, bowling smartly down the alley and using the horizontal steering lever to turn the corner onto Curzon Street as smoothly as if she hadn’t learned to make turns just two weeks ago.

“Well done, miss. Mind that covered conveyance, there. He’s stopping.”

“I see him.” She steered around the enormous lorry filled with lengths of wood for the hotel being constructed on the corner. A cacophony of sound rose around her, from the hammers of the carpenters to the shouts of drivers warning off other people’s horses, to the ting of a bell on a shop door opening as they passed.

Their progress slowed to the point that a gaggle of ragamuffins was able to surround the landau and jog alongside it. “Please, miss, have you a halfpenny to spare? Please, miss, we’re hungry.”

Gorse’s jaw set. “Shove off, you lot,” he snapped. “Get your grubby paws off this engine!”

To her horror, Claire saw that two of the filthy children were girls of not more than ten. Had they parents? Anyone to look after them? She applied the brake and the landau slowed even further. Digging in the bottom of her school bag, she located a few pence and tossed them to the girls. With shrieks of delight, the little crowd vanished into the warren of alleys behind the construction site.

“Begging your pardon, miss, but you should not encourage beggars.” Gorse gazed in the direction they had taken. “It only encourages them to steal from you.”

“I gave those pennies voluntarily.” She applied steam to the accelerator and they resumed their pace. “And they did look very thin.”

Gorse was far too polite to argue with her, even if he was probably right. Didn’t the Good Book say that if a person gave a cup of cold water to someone in need, it was the same as giving it to our Lord? She wanted for nothing ... well, nothing of a material kind, at least. Those pennies rolling around in the bottom of her bag would make themselves useful in filling a hungry stomach.

Claire kept a wary eye on the broad avenue in front of her. Large intersections such as the one at Park Lane still intimidated her just a trifle, but with Gorse’s patient coaching, they had become easier, especially as she learned to look for spooked horses and impatient young men coming in the other direction. She collected hoots and greetings from one or two of these, but as long as they weren’t swearing at her for cutting them off, she was content to blissfully ignore their shouts for her attention.

Not many women knew how to pilot an engine, much less one as pretty as her father’s.

And not only pilot it, but suss out the secrets of its operation. Every Saturday morning while the household slept, she and Gorse would examine the inner workings under the landau’s gleaming covers. She learned how to fill the coal hopper and top up the boiler. How to clean out the piping and grease the hard-working pistons. She even learned how to balance the delicate platforms that took the weight of coal and water and informed the gauges how much each contained.

Gorse, being a man of intellect and inner resources, knew as much about the physics of steam as any professor at St. Cecelia’s. “My grandmother’s first cousin on her father’s side was Richard Trevithick, the great Cornish engineer,” he’d told her one day at the beginning of their secret association. “Engineering runs in our family, you might say. I’d rather tinker with this fine piece of work than run one of his lordship’s tin mines, and that’s a fact.”

Claire deeply regretted the inanity of St. Cecelia’s curriculum, which dictated that young ladies should learn dancing, deportment, languages, and the chemistry of the kitchen and cookery rather than practical things like engineering and the operation of steam engines. Who cared how the cake rose? It would do so despite your knowledge of its chemistry, as long as you put the right ingredients into it and applied the right amount of heat. Getting oneself around the country under one’s own power—flying upon the ground at the speed of the wind itself—now, that was something worth teaching.

But of course her opinion signified nothing, at school or at home.

A block from Wilton Crescent, the elegant street in Belgravia where Carrick House was situated, she piloted the landau to a grassy verge, where the tracks of wheels told the educated eye this was where such an engine had stopped before. Divesting herself of her driving rig, she and Gorse exchanged places and a few minutes later, arrived with the utmost decorum at the shiny black rear doors of Viscount and Lady St. Ives’ home while in town.

“Thank you, Gorse. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, miss. And may I say, well done.”

Glowing, she climbed the scrubbed steps and let herself into the rear hall. To her right, swinging doors opened into the kitchens, already bustling with preparations for dinner, which was served precisely at eight on the evenings her parents were at home. To her left were offices and the quarters of the senior staff. The housemaids had their rooms on the fourth floor. She climbed the stairs to the second level, where cool marble floors gleamed and the scents of wax and the freesias in their Chinese vase on the hall table greeted her in a silent benediction.

There was much to be said for silence. Perhaps Mama had not yet returned from paying her afternoon calls.

“Claire? Is that you?”

Claire’s chest deflated in a sigh. It had been too much to hope that she could escape to her room unnoticed. “Yes, Mama.”

“I wish to speak to you. In the morning room, please.” The tightness in her mother’s tone was her first warning. Like the yellow arc on the pressure gauge, it indicated that if something were not done immediately, the consequences could be dire.

The happy glow of a fine afternoon’s drive faded. In point of fact, the second brightest spot in this otherwise dreadful day had been the explosion.

Which she had no doubt at all was to be the subject of the next quarter of an hour.

Lady St. Ives sat upon the forest-green brocade couch, its width sufficient to accommodate the bustles and petticoats of the fashionable, in the forefront of which she maintained a dashing lead. Her navy-and-white striped silk skirts were overlaid by a polonaise of navy damask trimmed in gold ruching, and gold rosettes drew the eye to a square neckline and the statuesque figure that was the envy of many a dumpier matron.

The fact that Claire had inherited her father’s height but not her mother’s figure, her father’s unruly auburn mane and not her mother’s blonde curls, was a continuing source of despair. Only in the last year or two had she given up hope of developing differently than unpleasant reality suggested. The release of that last hope had been painful, contributing directly to her reluctance to be made a show of during the Season.

And speaking of unpleasant reality ...

“Sit down, Claire. How did you enjoy your classes today?”

Was this a trick question, set to trap the unwary? “Very well, Mama.”

“So much so that you stayed late?”

She and Gorse had indeed taken a somewhat circuitous route home in order to practice right turns, but not enough to cause alarm. “I’m sorry, Mama?”

“I have just had a tube from Madame du Barry informing me that you did not appear for your appointment at four o’clock.”

Madame du Barry. Madame du ... oh. “But the fittings aren’t until tomorrow.”

For the second time that day, she was pinned in place by an unrelenting blue gaze. “They were today.” A narrow brass mailing tube stood on the table, obviously fresh from the vacuum delivery system that snaked beneath London like a veritable Medusa of communication. Lady St. Ives tapped the rolled-up sheet of paper that had come inside it against the palm of her hand. “Do you have any idea how much effort I put into securing your appointment with her? Do you know how sought-after she is? Why, your appointment followed directly after that of Princess Beatrice.
Princess Beatrice
, Claire!”

“I’m so sorry, Mama. I honestly thought it was tomorrow.” How could she think about something as mundane as a dress fitting when the day had been such a disaster? A tube from Professor Grünwald could only be a matter of time. She should really be going about in a smock and boots. Think of the wear and tear she might save the stylish efforts of people like Madame du Barry.

“As it is, we will barely be able to get another fitting before your graduation, and I shudder to think what I will do if she decides to stop work on your presentation gown. Honestly, dear, is it so difficult to keep important things in mind? You are such a twitterpate sometimes—I really wonder if your education at St. Cecelia’s is having any effect at all.”

“I’m getting top marks in French and German,” Claire offered meekly.

“That will serve you well should you need to direct a staff in those languages. But in order to have a staff, you must have a home of your own. To have a home of your own, you must attract a husband of wealth and standing. And in order to attract a husband, you must yourself be attractive. How can you do that if you miss appointments with your modiste?”

Claire hoped her future happiness did not depend solely on a designer’s skill with tapes and drapery. “I would hope the man I marry would be attracted to my mind, not the efforts of my dressmaker.”

“Don’t be impertinent. I am quite serious.” That, sadly, was true. “You know Papa frowns when you talk like a Wit.” But Papa was not here. He had been spending long hours in the House of Lords, arguing with people about investing in the combustion engine. She supposed gentlemen had to spend their time doing something, but goodness, how foolish.

Mama was speaking again. “... are your dance lessons progressing?”

“The dance master is pleased.” Perhaps she could make her smile after all. “Twelve new variations of the mazurka are the rage this Season, and we have all learned them.”

“I am happy to hear it. At least I will not have to worry on that account. In the last report I had from your headmistress, she said you actually attain something akin to grace in the ballroom. Perhaps your debut will be a success after all.”

Claire gave the expected reply. “I hope so, Mama.”

The mother’s helper nosed through the open door, its busy brushes cleaning up particles of dirt and dust from both the polished hardwood and the Turkish rug. The size of a loaf of bread and made of gleaming brass, its tiny engine ran on the kinetick energy produced by its perpetual motion. What a help such a device would have been this afternoon.

“Claire, pay attention. I will do all I can to present you to the best society, but it is your charm, your wit, your—” Lady St. Ives seemed to change her mind about the next word. “—your ability to make yourself attractive to eligible partners that will determine your success.”

Oh happy thought. “Yes, Mama.”

“On that subject, we have no time to lose. We shall begin holding intimate parties for select guests, as a kind of prelude to your debut.”

“But Mama, you’ve said yourself I cannot go into society until after I’m presented.” Thank heaven.

“Did I say grand balls? I did not. I said intimate parties here at home, such as the ones I have planned for Friday, Saturday, and Tuesday, and we will of course be part of the progressive dinner on Friday next, after the graduation ceremony. If you had managed to remember your fitting, you would have had new dresses for these occasions. As it is, you will have to make do with something you’ve already worn, and hope the new one is ready for next Friday.”

Talk of clothes was wearing her out. “I have several pretty dresses, Mama.” They were practically new, invitations from Wellesley House and Astor Place having not exactly flowed in.

“I believe the blue satin with the asymmetrical drape and Alençon lace will flatter your eyes and figure the best. This Friday we will have a number of young people in for supper and cards.” Lady St. Ives rose and took a piece of paper from her escritoire. Sensing her movement with the statick repulsion that kept it from bumping into furniture, the mother’s helper swerved to avoid her feet. “Look over the guest list and tell me if you wish to add anyone. Your papa may have to leave the card party before supper, so we must make up our numbers.”

Claire scanned the list. Lady Julia Wellesley. Miss Gloria Meriwether-Astor. Peter Livingston, Baron Bryce. Lady Catherine Montrose. The Marquess of Blatchley. Lord James Selwyn.

Oh, dear. Except for the last, who was unknown to her and therefore still held out hope for congeniality, the list was nothing short of torture. “You’ve left off Emilie Fragonard, Mama.”

“Darling, I was hoping for someone of the sterner sex. Besides, her great-uncle was an
artist
.”

“She is my closest friend, and her grandfather on her mother’s side is an earl.”

Reluctantly, her mother set pen to paper. “I had forgotten that.”

Claire bit back an unladylike snort. Her mother’s memory was more reliable than Debrett’s, and certainly contained more detail. Debrett’s, after all, did not list the annual incomes of the peers and their heirs.

“And if we are only playing cards, I should like to invite Peony Churchill and her mother, Mrs. Stanley Churchill.”

Lady St. Ives stared at her. “What an outlandish thing to call one’s daughter.”

Claire had not actually exchanged more than a few shy sentences with the offspring of her idol. Peony did not mix in the circles Claire’s mother encouraged, and word would travel fast if Claire sought her out. However, an invitation to Carrick House might open doors in Chelsea, if she could only get this past her mother.

“The name suits her. She is a girl of a certain ...
avoirdupois
.”

“But her family? Her connections? Are they related to the Spencer Churchills?”

“I ... I do not know. It is possible.”

“I suggest we find out, then.” Her mother laid down her fountain pen and rose from the writing desk.

“But Mama, I should like you to receive her. She must be of good family, or she would not be going to St. Cecelia’s.”

“Not so. There are far too many offspring of engineers and explorers trying to enroll in that school. It is only a matter of time before money and dubious accomplishment gains entrance to doors that have before only opened to breeding. I’m really rather glad that it is your last year there.”

“Please, Mama. It is only two ladies. Surely they will not set our party at odds.”

“I shall find out if they are connected with the Spencers. If they are, I will welcome them gladly.”

And if they are not
... Claire heard the words as clearly as if they had been spoken aloud. Even if Claire begged her on her knees, she doubted Lady St. Ives would receive a woman who had helped to map the Niger River, and whose discoveries of diamond deposits in the Canadas had set the South African financiers of the City on their collective ear. She would not be permitted to even speak to Peony Churchill in the corridors at school, and all her tentative efforts to that end would be for naught.

Frustrated, Claire bit her lip and changed the subject to one that would please her mother. “And how is my little brother today? Has he managed to speak a complete sentence yet?”

Lady St. Ives’ features lost their pinched look and softened into a smile. “He has indeed. His nanny tells me she has never seen such a forward child.”

“I shall go see him at once.”

Her fingers had barely touched the door handle when her mother said, “Claire?” She turned. “What is that in your hair?”

If only she’d gone to see the baby before this interview! Then she could have passed it off somehow on him. “It is dried root beer, Mama. I had an accident in Chemistry.”

Lady St. Ives sighed and followed her to the door. “What am I going to do with you? Come and see your brother. It seems you are only fit to play with babies.”

Claire could think of worse ways to spend an evening. Writing one hundred lines, for instance. What a lucky thing that Emilie had perfected her Multiple Nib Scrivener for this very purpose. With as many as ten pens affixed to an adjustable arm, Claire only had to write Professor Grünwald’s odious sentence ten times.

Thank heaven for friends who could be depended on.